


If I'm Not Back Again This Time Tomorrow

by agreatmanythings



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Billy-centric, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Gay Billy Hargrove, Joyce Byers is an angel, M/M, Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Tale as Old as Time, billy is unhinged af and needs therapy, burn as slow as fuck, everyone gets to go on a journey of self-discovery hurray, lots of swearing deal with it, no upside down cause nobody got time to write that shit, we post without plotting like MEN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-09-27 22:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agreatmanythings/pseuds/agreatmanythings
Summary: People are watching, he knows. Ever since he roared into the parking lot of Hawkins High yesterday, all eyes have been on him. Not like there is anything else going on here. He got plenty of lip-glossed smiles and thumps on the back today, each one asking if he’s excited for the party tonight. Billy does not give a shit about who is going or what their costume is. But he winks and grins and tells em all, “Better have some good fucking beer. I’ve been feelin thirsty.” The boys hoot and the girls swoon and everyone treats him like he is the best thing to ever grace the halls of Hawkins High.





	1. King of the Mountain

Billy has just about carved the entirety of, “Indiana can suck my dick,” into the sticky wood of his desk when the bell rings. Students rise in unison, shoving notebooks into overstuffed bags before rushing towards the door. Billy remains, adding the finishing touches to his art when someone clears their throat. The hem of a corduroy skirt catches his eye. His gaze travels up the seam and over a cardigan to end on the red head standing above him. 

Billy leans back in his chair, and plasters on his shark smile. “Hey,” is all he has to say before a tinge of pink flushes her cheeks. 

She shoves an orange slip of paper at him. “You should come to Tina’s party tomorrow.” 

He scans the invite. “Come Get Sheet-Faced,” it says, with a cartoon of a ghost hovering beside it. Staving off an eye roll, Billy lowers the paper to regard her. “Now why would I do that?” 

To give her credit, she replies without missing a beat. “Cause it’s your first day at school, and everyone’s gonna be there-” He holds back a snort because of course every teen in this god-forsaken town could fit in one house party. “-It’d be a great place to meet people.” 

The way she leans closer to his desk does not go unnoticed. He scans her up and down, from the roller curls to the pristine sneakers. 

“I didn’t catch your name…” 

“Carol.” 

The shark smile stretches. “Well, Carol. Guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night.” 

The rest of the day follows suit, with Billy earning six orange invites and seven verbal ones, each following the outline of his and Carol’s interaction. Guess he was going to spend his Halloween getting sheet-faced with a bunch of Midwest hicks. Not like there was anything else to do in Hawkins. 

#

Billy watches the thin streak of smoke rise from his cigarette as he leans against the Camaro. People are watching, he knows. Ever since he roared into the parking lot of Hawkins High yesterday, all eyes have been on him. Not like there is anything else going on here. He got plenty of lip-glossed smiles and thumps on the back today, each one asking if he’s excited for the party tonight. Billy does not give a shit about who is going or what their costume is. But he winks and grins and tells em all, “Better have some good fucking beer. I’ve been feelin thirsty.” The boys hoot and the girls swoon and everyone treats him like he is the best thing to ever grace the halls of Hawkins High. 

Billy drops the cigarette as a particular, frumpy red head approaches his car, head down and skateboard in hand. 

“You’re late again,” he says as casually as pointing out her untied shoes. They both know it is a loaded remark. 

“I had to get catch up homework,” replies Max, her voice small. 

“Jesus I don’t care. You’re late again and you’re skating home. Do you hear me?” 

No answer as she rips open the passenger door, shoving her backpack inside. He flicks the cigarette to the cement before sliding into the driver’s side. They drive in silence- save for the music riffing through his speakers- past the saddest main street Billy’s ever seen, past rows of houses all tucked neatly in between colored trees. He scoffs as the neighborhood stretches into a bare, open field. 

“This place is such a shit hole.” 

Max glances over. “It’s not that bad.” 

“No?” 

Fingering the center console controls, her window slides down as a puff of manure tumbles through the car. She grimaces as he takes the deepest breath. 

“Hmmm, ya smell that, Max?” Billy shouts over the wind as he plugs his nose and turns to lean into her space, “That’s actually shit. Cow shit.” 

Max hardens her expression and rolls the window back up. “I don’t see any cows.” 

“Clearly, you haven’t met the high school girls.” Her eye roll is so exaggerated, he can pretty feel it without glancing over. “So what, you like it here now?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you defending it?” 

“I’m not.” 

“Sure sounds like it.” 

Billy hears her sigh over the rumbling of his engine. “It’s just we’re stuck here, so…” 

His teeth grind on their own accord as his fingers wrap around the wheel that much tighter. “Right. We’re stuck here-” he rolls his head to glare at her, “-And who’s fault is that?” 

Max does not respond, just stares blankly out the window at the millionth tree they have passed. His eyes fall back on the road. 

“Your’s.” 

It is so quite, barely a breath, he would not have been able to hear it if not for the resentment in that single word. 

Billy whips his head around. “What did you say?” 

Her reply rushes. “Nothing.” 

“Did you say it’s my fault?” 

“No.” 

The Camaro rumbles on, endless fields and orange leaves swiping by. Licking his lips, his voice drops. “You know who’s fault it is. Say it.” 

Her face remains turned entirely away from him. 

“Ma-ax. Say it.” 

Not a word. Pouncing in his seat, he turns to scream in her ear, the red strands of hair fluttering in his breath. “Say it!” 

He watches as she barely bats an eye. 

And suddenly, screaming is not enough. If this little bitch was not showing him any respect, and who would? Respect was beat into you. Like a song you cannot stand until you hear it enough that the words are reluctantly forming on your lips. 

Grabbing the gear stick, he rips it into first gear, shoving his boot to the worn floor. The engine roars to life, like a stallion rearing into flight, the Camaro vibrating as trees turn into blurs, and clouds into one big grey smear. Flicking the music to ear-burning, Billy beats on the steering wheel rim, lip tugged behind his teeth as the adrenaline soars with his car. Max is unfazed, scowling in the passenger seat. 

Until they pass over a hill. A few strays kids are biking down the road, swaying over the yellow line with a carelessness that only comes with safety. 

She strains forward. “Billy, slow down.” 

He likes the way her body turns rigid, the way the words rush out of her mouth. A spike of fear. 

“Awe, these your new hick friends?” 

“No! I- I don’t know them.” Max is staring at him now, eyes wide. It pumps adrenaline through his veins. 

“Well, I guess you won’t care if I hit ‘em then, huh? I get bonus points if I hit ‘em all in one go?” 

She leans in close to him, gritting her teeth. “Billy, stop it’s not funny.” 

He beats the steering wheel in time to the guitar, staring at her with eyes half shut in boredom. The Camaro is screaming now, wailing through the Midwest like a wild banshee, the open air and stray leaves sailing right over her. The bikes are getting closer. He thinks one of the kids glances back. The music speeds up as he pounds the wheel harder, palms aching from the beating. 

“Billy!” Max is screaming now, barely audible over the engine and guitar, “C’mon! Stop it! It’s not funny!” 

Their grill is so close to the bikes, ready to swallow them whole like a shark eats minnows. He shoves the gas until his foot turns numb. 

“Billy, stop!” 

The kids are panicking now, pedaling as fast as their single-gear bikes will take them. Licking his lips, he waits to devour them. 

Max’s hand is on the wheel, whipping the Camaro to just barely swerve around them, an instant before their brains would have been ground beef on the pavement. 

The adrenaline rockets through his body like a strike of lighting, on fire as he whoops. “Yea! That was a close one, huh!” 

Max is staring at him like he genuinely scorched their asses into the ground. Her fear feeds his high. The little bitch has learned her place. At the bottom of the food chain. 

#

The keg stand record in Hawkins is thirty-seven seconds. Was thirty-seven. Billy knows he has won before he even touched the metal rim. The crowd chants as he chugs, blood and beer rushing to his head until it feels like he is drowning in the sensory overload. He keeps his lips wrapped tightly around the tube until he hears the crowd count to thirty-seven with a cheer, and a couple seconds afterward for good measure. The boys holding him drop his boots onto the grass, and he has to catch himself before wiping out. The crowd goes wild when he stands, raising their solo cups as painted cat faces and rubber masks chant his name. They are all so shit-faced but Billy cannot help but spray the last gulp of beer into the air, letting the mist coat his chin and bare chest. In two days, he has lept to the top, and he -Billy Hargrove- is already king of the mountain. Or hill. He throws his head back and howls at the moon as his subjects chant his name. 

“That’s how you do it, Hawkins!” he bellows, beating his chest. They only chant louder. “That’s how you do it!” 

Someone in a Karate Kid costume -one of the boys who held him upside down- hands him a lit cigarette that Billy vaguely remembers shoving at him before doing the kegstand. The Karate Kid -Timmy or Tod or something- yells, “We got ourselves a new, Keg King!” 

They keep up the chant, the Karate Kid pounding his back with every shout, as Billy stalks back inside the house. There is a mosh of drunken teens all hopping and grinding to the beat of some overplayed pop song. But he pays no attention to them, and shoves right through, stepping over furniture, eyes locked on a target. 

Harrington. 

Billy cannot seem to remember the guy’s first name. The Karate Kid had given him the whole schpiel on Harrington earlier that day. Apparently, the boy wearing chunky sunglass with stupid, fluffy hair used to be king. It was his keg stand record that Billy crushed, and his title that Billy swooped right in to grab as the crown fell from his head. The story has something to do with some preppy chick whose got him all pussy whipped, and turned him from his bad boy ways. He assumes the skinny girl beside him is the one who tamed the beast. 

Billy stalks right up to them, cigarette blazing between his lips, steel eyes fixed on his successor. The girl glares, as Harrington watches behind black glasses. 

“We got ourselves a new keg king, Harrington,” the Karate Kid taunts as he comes up behind Billy. 

“Yea, that’s right! Yea, suck it! Eat it, Harrington!” others add. 

Billy lets the bragging pass over him. He wants to see this king, to look him in the eye as Harrington watches Hawkins High become Billy’s bitch. He wants the other boy to burn. To feel the loss. He wants a challenge. A fight. But when the sunglasses come off, Billy almost steps back to adjust his tipsy vision. Those Bambi eyes could not have belonged to a king. 

Harrington stares, jaw working in a way Billy knows all too well. But then his little-miss-preppy scowls and walks away, and he can see the other’s eyes flicker for just a breath. 

“Whatever.” 

Then Harrington is turning his back on him, chasing through the party after his girlfriend. So that’s how it is. Billy spits a wad of lingering nicotine onto the beer-soaked floor.


	2. Playing Rough

The whole school is hungover on November 1st, dragging through the halls like a bunch of zombies. Not Billy. He makes sure to stand straighter than the rest, having actually been able to function enough to do his hair and think about what clothes to wear. Everyone was too shit-faced to even notice their new king’s chariot screech away just before midnight. He was parked and inside his house at 11:59. 

Billy spends his day slamming lockers and dropping text books if only to watch Tommy and George F. cringe and clutch their heads. Basketball is no different, he seems to be running at twice the speed of everyone else, while they all flail behind him, pale faces and soaked shirts. Harrington is the only one whose limbs seem to actually listen to him. In fact, judging by the amount of sweat down his back and scowl on his face, he is playing angry. Billy grins.

He only watches for so long before saddling up to Steve -a name he learned this morning. Harrington has the ball, rushing down the court as he dribbles, hair tousled and dripping. While the rest of the team wanders around in a hungover haze, Billy plants himself before him, shuffling to the left when the other tries to go right, creating the only threat. Steve passes the ball between his legs, eyeing Billy, before charging. Billy is stopping him with a hard check to the shoulder, pushing against his back as the other boy shuffles around, trying to get past. 

His damp shirt sticks to Billy’s bare chest as he says, “Harrington, right? I heard you used to run this school. King Steve they used to call you, huh?-” Steve attempts to dribble around his left, only for Billy to catch him with a shove, “-Then you turned bitch.” 

Billy grins wickedly into the other’s sweaty hair as he struggles to break free, keeping a hand illegally wrapped around his tricep. Steve shoots a glance back. 

“Hey, maybe you could just shut up and play the game-” 

Billy surges before Harrington even finishes his sentence, smacking the ball away mid-dribble and running away with his prize, leaving a sweaty Harrington in his wake. He hooks it under his leg for pizzaz, jumping and tossing the ball easily into the basket. Tommy is cheering and some dude high-fives him, but when Billy looks back to gloat, Harrington is walking away, head down, right towards his prissy little girlfriend standing on the edge of the gym floor. Coach blows the whistle for a water break as Harrington and little-miss-perfect exit the gym. 

“Did’ya hear?” Tommy says, knocking into his elbow when they sip their waters and dry their sweat, “Harrington didn’t take Nancy home last night.” 

Billy focuses on water swishing in his cup. But some junior perks up. “No way, he fucking left her?” 

Tommy grins. “Nope. She left with someone else.” 

“Who?” 

“Jonathan Byers.” 

“The creep? Gross!” 

“They’ve been getting awfully friendly since last year-” 

“Jesus, I don’t care,” Billy interrupts, taking one last gulp of his water, “Maybe if you stopped staring at Steve Harrington and started doing something on the court, we might actually not be horrible this year.” 

Harrington comes back, eventually. 

While the team fumbles around on the court, he walks back in, head down. Billy is on him the second coach puts Harrington back in, a constant, in-your-face presence at his shoulder. At one point, Harrington is passed the ball, only for Billy to swoop in and take it without so much as breaking a sweat. He cackles as Harrington whirls around, bewildered. The other boy takes a stand in an attempt to block Billy. 

But Billy just straightens, bouncing the ball casually and he extends a hand. “Alright, alright, everybody! King Steve! King Steve everyone!” 

The players around them to slow, eyeing whatever standoff is taking place between the two. 

“I like it,” sneers Billy, edging closer, “Playing rough today.” 

“Jesus, do you ever stop talking, man? C’mon,” snaps Harrington, shuffling around Billy, hand out in an attempt to block him. 

Billy laughs, changing his stance to stroll down the court. “What? You afraid that coach is gonna bench you now that I’m here, huh?” 

And before Harrington can reply, Billy surges forward, plowing him over, jumping up to dunk the ball as Steve’s back hits the ground. 

Billy smacks someone’s hand as another boy slaps his back. He paces over to Harrington, still down, and extends a hand. Harrington eyes him warily, the scowl he wore earlier back on his face, before accepting it. Billy pulls him halfway, crouching so their faces are a pant apart. From here Harrington’s eyes are the biggest, honey brown ones he’s ever seen. 

He shakes his head. “You were moving your feet. Plant ‘em. Draw a charge.” He shoves Harrington back down and walks away. 

#

The communal shower room exhales steam around the group of sweaty boys, all standing naked under the hot sprays, scrubbing soap that smells like cardboard over their skin. Harrington is there, rubbing a bubbling shampoo through his hair, staring at the ground and talking to no one as others mess around. Billy siddles up to him, letting the hot water hit his face, the stream much to harsh for a comfortable shower. His hair loses its volume as it soaks in the water. 

He sniffs obnoxiously, staring directly at the side of Harrington’s soapy head before saying, “Don’t sweat it, Harrington. Today’s just not your day.” 

But Steve just scowls at the ground. Billy stares. He’s being fucking nice. 

Tommy H. flips on the shower head across from them and snickers. “Yea, just not your week-” Billy does not miss the way his eyes flicker to Hargrove then back again. “-You and the princess breakup for one day and she’s running off with the freak’s brother.” 

Billy’s gaze shoots back to Harrington. Tommy had never said anything about a breakup. 

He has come to realize that Steve Harrington does not have a poker face and it is so clear when he scowls at the wet tile swirling with suds at his feet. Billy suppresses a grin. This is too easy. 

He turns to glare at Tommy H. The stupid smile drops from his freckled face as he catches the steel. Tommy quickly shuts his mouth and turns off the shower before puttering away, head down. Billy rolls his head back to watch the water drip down Harrington’s nose. 

“Don’t take it to hard man-” He plants a hand beside Harrington’s shower handle, leaning against it to come in close, letting Harrington’s spray mist his face. “-Pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about-” he tips forward, till he can smell the mint shampoo in Harrington’s hair. “Plenty of bitches in the sea.” 

Harrington just scrubs the suds harder into his scalp. Not good enough. Billy tips the handle until the water squeaks to a stop above their heads. Harrington’s hands freeze over his eyes. 

“Am I right?” 

And there it is. Harrington finally turns, looking straight at Billy with eyes so stupidly big and so obviously filled with frustration that he finds himself staring at them, catching the way the terrible yellow lighting makes them look almost black and so very troubled. Harrington has to blink a few times before Billy snaps out of it. 

He immediately moves to leave, slapping Harrington’s shoulder in a pseudo-macho way, regretting it with the way the skin on skin reverberates around the chamber. Billy bolts in the calmest way he can, not missing how the collected water splashes at his feet or how he can feel Harrington glaring at his back. 

“I’ll be sure to leave you some,” he throws as a last thought, before he hears the shower burst back to life. 

#

The Camaro skids around a corner, nearly flattening a mail box and a goose statue as it comes roaring down the street. Billy holds the paper between two fingers, eyeing it before checking the addresses that fly past him. He nearly misses the one Max had written down. The tires scream as he jerks into a driveway hidden by thick trees. Billy swears he is on the stupid path for a whole minute before actually catching sight of a house. It sits atop a small hill, yellow and brown, surrounded by trees of the same color. He screeches to a stop, nose of his car puffing smoke onto the license plate of a red Beamer. 

Billy eyes the parked car a moment, before laying on the horn, letting it scare the birds out of their nests. The front door opens on the second horn, as Max twists around it shouting, “One second!” 

When the door closes again with her still inside, he lets the horn rip a third time, not stopping until she is down the porch steps and nearly around to the passenger side. That’s when the front door opens again. And Billy swears he must have hit his head at some point, because for a second, it looks like the fluffy hair of Steve Harrington standing in the doorway, before it slams shut as quickly it as opened. 

Billy reverses down what has to be the longest driveway in history, twisting his head around to watch the trees flit by out his back windshield. The Camaro skids onto the street pavement before roaring away. He tosses a glance over at Max, who seems unfazed if not a little grumpy, staring out the window. 

“The hell is Steve Harrington doin’ with a bunch of kids.” 

She does not move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He clenches the wheel. “I’m not fucking blind, Max. The hell is a grown ass man doing with a bunch of children?” 

Max glances at him a moment, and he can practically see the gears turning beneath her red hair. “He’s Dustin’s babysitter,” she says upon looking back out the window. Billy pauses. 

“Babysitter?” 

“Well, he used to be,” she corrects herself, “But Dustin’s thirteen now so he’s more of a friend.” 

He lets the word hesitate on his tongue. “Friend.” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Any other day, Billy would have stomped on the brakes or shouted for her blatant disrespect towards him. He was the one driving her to playdates like a goddamn soccer mom for fuck’s sake. But with the bit of information she had just given- like a child tossing cookie pieces into the shark tank- he bit his lips shut before she would turn around and see him smiling like an idiot. God, it was all too easy.

Once they reach their house, Max is out of his car before he has time to kill the engine. Billy tugs his keys and pockets them, following her up the porch steps, not missing the way the door slams shut on his face. He jerks it open and slams it closed again behind him, letting the wood smack into the frame, echoing around the house like a gunshot. 

“What the hell was that?” 

Billy freezes. Neil Hargrove stands beside the mantle, just two feet from him. Billy clenches his jaw shut before glaring up at his dad. 

“Did you pay for that door?” Neil demands, arms crossed and not stepping closer, but not stepping back. 

Billy glares, nostrils flaring. He did not come home for this shit. 

“I asked you a question.” His dad’s volume rises with every word, and soon he will be shouting despite the small distance between them. 

Billy grits his teeth. “No, sir.” 

Neil nods. “That’s right. So you don’t get to fuck up our brand new house! Do you understand me?” He’s yelling now, the jarhead having coming out in full-force, totally covering any signs of affection. 

When Billy hesitates, Neil takes a half step forward, and Billy feels his whole body flinch. 

“Yes, sir,” he spits before his dad’s shoe can even touch the welcome mat. 

Neil pauses, steel blue eyes studying every twitch on his son’s face. Then he nods. “Good. Now get washed for supper. Susan has worked hard to feed you. I better hear some sincere compliments.” 

Billy is gone the second his dad steps away, stomping down the hallway, nearly bowling over Max as she steps out of the bathroom. 

He ignores her startled, “Hey!” 

It was her goddamn fault. All of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yea, THANKS FOR READING THIS
> 
> if you haven't noticed it's just for my own enjoyment but I hope you enjoy it too
> 
> also didn't edit it as thoroughly as I should have but I don't give a fuck rn I just like writing it


	3. Find Max

There are no legitimate grocery stores in Hawkins. Just a handful of mom-n-pops who randomly carry bananas or bread or milk. But none carry all three. Billy has searched through each one, a crumpled grocery list from Susan stuffed in his pocket. It is almost like some twisted, hillbilly labyrinth. 

“Oh, I’m sorry we don’t have cheese here. That would be at Donny’s.” 

“Nope. No cereal. Check Lynn’s.” 

Billy does not know who Donny or Lynn are but they are driving him up the fucking wall and he is ready to rip the head off the next sales person when he walks into the last shop. The employee just happens to be a small woman, with messy brown hair and big doe eyes and his fury subdues for a second. He almost feels bad for slamming the door open so hard that it collides with the window frame behind it, making the small woman jump and stare. Almost. 

But she rights herself and hurries on over, looking up at him with a big smile. “Hi, what can I get for you?” 

“Beans.” 

She points out an aisle and he stomps on over. When Billy is sure he finally- finally, has everything on Susan’s list, he drops a broken shopping basket at the register before the lady. “Joyce,” her nametag reads. 

“Are you new in town?” she asks as she begins checking out his items, the register whirring and clicking like its from the sixties. It probably is. 

Typically, he would pause to stretch out a slow smile, look her in the eyes and say, “Why yes, ma’m.” But today he just grunts out an affirmative noise and stares at the groceries. 

“Oh! Then you must be Max’s brother!” 

His eyes snap up. Joyce is smiling at him like they are having the politest conversation over tea. 

“Stepbrother,” he corrects. 

He sees something flicker across her eyes before she nods, dropping the conversation. When finished she asks, “Is that all for today?” 

Billy gestures behind her. “And a pack of Malboros.” 

Joyce flashes him a big grin. “I’m gonna need to see some ID.” 

He stops digging in his wallet for a moment, eyeing her. But she just smiles. A California ID is tossed on the counter. Joyce picks it up, studies it for a moment before saying, “Good picture. But that’s not gonna work.” 

Billy’s eyes narrow as he feels all the frustration from this fucking shopping excursion rise once again. “I’m sorry?” 

“It’s a good one, I’ll give you that. But I know a fake when I see one.” 

He jabs a finger at the card. “I’m eighteen! I’m a senior!” 

But she just shrugs. “Almost. But not yet.” 

Honestly, fuck this town.

Billy rips the card from her hands and stuffs it back in his wallet, ready to storm out the door. 

“Don’t you need your groceries?” 

He takes the deepest, most exaggerated breath he can, fist clenched and sweaty around his wallet. A twenty is tossed at her as he whips the bags off the counter. “Keep the change.” 

“Have a nice day!” she calls after him. The door is nearly closed behind him, when he hears Joyce grumble, “Asshole.” 

#

Billy hears Max before he can see her. The chewed up plastic of her wheels hiss along the pavement as she skates by his head. He lays on his back, face buried in the undercarriage of the Camaro, grease coating his fingers in black. 

“Ma-ax,” his voice comes out cheery, sing-songy, and based on the ways her wheels skid to a stop, he knows she may have finally learned something. 

Her white sneakers poke out under the frame, just above his head. “What?” 

Billy continues to fiddle with the machinery. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

He can hear her scoff. “Mom and Neil aren’t home, I’m going to Lucas’s.” 

His fingers finally freeze. “No. Your not.” 

When Max is quiet, he fiddles with the undercarriage again until, “I’ll be back by seven.” 

He drops his hands onto his stained tank. “Jesus, how fucking dumb are you?” 

She practically stomps her sneaker like the child she is. “Whatever, I’m going.” 

Billy is out from under the Camaro and towering above Max in an instant, gripping her wrist so tightly he knows it will bruise. Her face scrunches in pain. 

“When,” he breathes, voice so low that he crouches to get in her space, “Are you going to learn, Maxine.” 

When she struggles against his grip, he tugs it harder until their hands are on his chest and his breath shifts the strands of red hair in her face. “Get. Back. Inside.” 

Billy holds on for an extra few breaths, before tossing her arm aside, knowing she is clutching it behind him as he stalks back to the nose of the Camaro. She does not go inside when he lays down and slides back under the car, but she does not skate away either. Until her white sneaker flies out, colliding with the single red jack holding up half of the car frame. 

The whole machine jolts. Billy’s heart stops and his hands instinctively fly up to catch the undercarriage before his own car crushes him to death. But it stops, creaking as it settles back, barely balancing on the jack. He sees her sneakers bolt towards the house. 

Billy is out from under the Camaro and screaming. “Get the fuck back here! You could have fucking killed me!” 

But the front door slams shut, leaving him outside alone with his car, and Max’s abandoned skate board. He lowers the car off the jack and reverses down the driveway until he hears the unmistakable sound of her board splitting in half. 

#

A freshly lit cigarette sits between his lips as Billy exhales the fresh dose of nicotine. The vibrations from his stereo ricochet off his bedroom walls, till the floor-length mirror shudders with the beat. The rock pounds through his body as he bounces in the mirror, smiling at the sensation. He applies finishing touches of hairspray to his mullet until a single curls falls perfectly down his forehead. A dab of cologne on each wrist with an extra handful down his pants, letting the liquid settle around his balls. 

Billy dips his chin to study himself, looking up through dark lashes as he buttons only the three lowest on his shirt. Turning to the side, he gives his ass a little wiggle, proud of the way it looks in tight jeans no one else in Hawkins would dare to wear. A timid knock comes from his door, barely audible over his stereo. But he hears it as he takes another drag, purposefully ignoring it, winking at the man in the reflection as a puff of smoke dissipates his features. 

The knock comes again. “Billy?” 

He continues to stare. “Yea, I’m a little bit busy in here, Susan.” 

For a moment, he thinks that maybe she’s given up, until a military shout breaks through the music, “Open the door! Right now!” 

Billy watches as his reflection turns from cocky to resigned, how those blue eyes become pitiful. He hates it. One last drag before he stubs out the cigarette and goes to open the door. 

Susan stands beyond a fuming Neil Hargrove, a steel frown hammered into his mustache. 

Billy glares. “What’s wrong.” 

“Why don’t you tell us,” says Neil. 

“Because I don’t know.” 

Susan pipes up, all puppy eyes and styled red hair, “We can’t find Maxine.” 

“And her window’s open,” adds Neil. When Billy hesitates, he demands, “Where is she?” 

His voice is escalating.  
Billy shifts his weight. “I dunno.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“Look, I’m sure she just went to the arcade or something,” Billy shrugs, turning away, reaching for his closet, “I’m sure she’s fine.” 

He knows Neil has followed him without looking back. “You were, supposed to watch her.” 

Billy slips into his leather jacket, sighing as the material slides over his arms, “I know, Dad, I was. But since you guys were three hours late and, well I have a date.” 

Once it’s sitting comfortably on his shoulders, Billy turns back towards Neil and Susan as she fusses in the doorway. “I’m sorry, okay?” 

Neil crosses his arms, glaring at the makeshift vanity setup where the cigarette still breathes little whisps of smoke. His voice is gratingly low, measured. “So that’s why you’ve been staring at yourself in the mirror like some faggot instead of watching your sister.” 

Billy snaps. If Neil can be ugly, than so can he. “I have been looking after her all week, Dad!” 

Neil’s face shifts from stern to appalled and Billy knows he is fucked for the next week but his mouth is on a roll and yelling suddenly feels so goddamn good after these god-awful two weeks in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. He digs a deeper grave. 

“If she wants to run off, then that’s her problem, alright? She’s thirteen years old she shouldn’t need a full-time babysitter.” He stomps over to the stereo and jams his finger into the stop button, yelling, “And she’s not my sister!” 

Neil is across the room and on him before he finishes his last word, gripping him by the coat collar and jamming his spine into the bookcase as the walls rattle with the impact. Billy’s back is reeling from the force, but he keeps his chin high and clenches his jaw in the exact same way Neil does as his dad fumes, nostrils flaring like a bull. Susan is ringing her hands in the doorway, looking anywhere but them. 

When Neil finally speaks, it’s calm and measured, but Billy can see the veins bulging along the curve of his forehead and neck. “What did we talk about?” 

Billy hesitates. 

A calloused hand comes up to smack him across the face, cheek stinging and soon to be very red from the back of his dad’s knuckles. Billy’s heart is pounding and he knows Neil can feel it beneath the fists that clutch his coat and he is still off balance from the hit when Neil grabs his chin and yanks it to face him. 

His voice remains even as he leans in closer. “What. Did. We. Talk about?” 

Neil is no longer more than an inch taller than Billy but he can still feel himself begin to crumple, like a child shriveling up on himself, cowering away from the bully, the way Billy’s own victims do in the school hallways. 

But he stares back at those steel blue eyes that look a little too much like his own as he grits out, “Respect, and responsibility.” 

“That is right. Now, apologize to Susan.” 

Billy wants to cry, wants to punch his father right in between those cold eyes, wants to bolt and hide. But he maintains eye contact with Neil and says, “I’m sorry, Susan.” 

She speaks up. She is still new at this. “It’s okay, Neil, really-” 

“No! It’s not okay!” he barks, jabbing at finger so dangerously close to Billy’s face, “Nothing about his behavior is okay!” A pause, before Neil back away in the slightest, grip still deadly on his jacket. “But he’s gonna make up for it.” 

He turns back to Susan saying, “He’s gonna call, whatever whore he’s seeing tonight, and cancel their date. And then, he’s gonna go find his sister, like the good, kind, respecting brother that he is.” 

Neil is staring at him now, face set. Billy can feel his eyes begin to dampen and his armor begin to crack but he remains pressed against the bookshelf, staring back. 

“Isn’t that right, Billy?” 

He takes a second to inhale a sob. 

Neil is back on him, spit flying as he shouts, “Isn’t that right?” 

“Yes, sir.” Billy’s voice comes out croaking and small and so fucking pathetic he knows. 

Neil does too, and sighs, disappointment so clear on the hard lines of his frown. He steps forward, head tipped to the side as he whispers, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” 

There is a tear in the corner of Billy’s eye, ready to plunge down the bridge of his nose, but he takes a shaky breath and grits, “Yes. Sir.” 

Neil turns back, glaring. “Find Max.” 

Then, he’s gone, and Susan putters after him like a dog that’s been kicked leaving Billy alone, the bookshelf still dug painfully between his vertebrae. The door slams shut as the first tears spill down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally stole the car jack scene from Runaway Max. I kinda want to pick from that because the Billy in that book was so fucked up and unhinged and I want to show that here to a degree. He just won't break any kid's arm lol.
> 
> Also you could buy cigarettes at 16 until 1987 but I don't care this is my story.
> 
> If you haven't noticed, this is one slow fucking burn so buckle in folks, maybe bring some snacks and a neck pillow cause this is a long ass flight.


	4. Bloody Night

Joyce is closing the door behind her, the store's bell jingling for one last time that night. The light above her flickers as she scrambles through her purse, mumbling something about, "...those stupid keys…" when Billy's Camaro comes roaring into the parking lot. It screeches to a stop just shy of clipping the back end of her parked car, music pounding the sleek, blue frame. He kills the engine and stands, smoke rising from the last puffs of a cigarette as he exhales into the night. Joyce just stares. 

Billy turns and shucks the cigarette. "Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am," he says, talking over the roof of his car, "But my step-sister Maxine seems to have gone and rebelled tonight. Her mother is worried sick and I need her home. Now." 

Joyce shrugs, purse still open, keys still not found. "I haven't seen them, I've been running the store all day." 

Billy grits his teeth, jamming a hand into his pocket for another smoke. "I've already been to the Dusty kid's house," he all but growls, trying so fucking hard not to shout, "But no cigar. Do you have any idea where she might be?" 

Joyce ponders for a moment, eyes bouncing between a wild Billy with smoke around his mullet and eyes searing in the night. "You know," she says, digging through her purse once again, "I could give you the Wheeler's address. That seems to be another hangout spot for them. They like to play Dungeons and Dragons in the basement." 

He raises his eyebrows but lets her scribble something on a crumpled receipt. She hands it over the roof of his car, reaching on her tippy-toes. 

Billy plucks it with two fingers and offers a mock salute. "Appreciate it." 

Then, he's gone, shoved back in the Camaro, engine revving as it screeches away, leaving Joyce in a pile of exhaust and tire marks. She rolls her eyes.

#

The Wheeler’s house sits atop a green hill, completed with a curved driveway and a Reagan sign out front. Billy nearly runs it over as he skids to a stop at their curb. Stomping up to their door, he tosses the third smoke since his search began that night, and lays a firm finger on the doorbell. The crickets chirp around the porch and he swears at least three bats fly over his head. No one answers. There’s a car in the driveway and the flickering of a blue tv light peaking behind the curtains. Billy presses the doorbell again. And again. And again. He looses track after five rings, just keeps shoving his finger at it, the frusteration growing every second he’s left standing on the stupid door mat and he is ready to resort to pounding on the door like the cops when it opens. 

The scent of lavender hits him as a woman stands in the doorway dawning a burgundy bathrobe wrapped so tauntingly low on her chest and so dangerously high on her legs. Billy’s mannerisms switch gears instantly, as he relaxes his stance and stretches into a lazy grin. Now this, he can do.

“Oh, hi.” 

He lets his eyes drop down, taking in the way her skin gleams damp in the porch light, like she had just gotten out of a bath. 

“Hi.” 

She seems to remember then, having caught his obvious gaze, as she looks at herself, placing a nervous hand on her chest, then dropping it and trying to adjust the robe’s knot around her waist. 

“I didn’t realize Nancy had a sister.” 

Billy has used that line dozens of times, on teachers and moms and any woman clearly over the age of thirty five. And she scoffs like all the rest of them, cheeks going as deeply red as her bathrobe and he knows he has hit his mark as she smiles giddily. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“I’m Nancy’s mother,” she says, gesturing with red painted nails. 

“No.”

She giggles, biting her lip and twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger like a teenager. “Yes.” 

“Mrs. Wheeler!” Billy croons, letting his eyes wander down again. 

She seems to regain herself for a moment. “I’m- I’m sorry, and you are?” 

“Billy. Billy Hargrove.” 

He extends a hand, still warm from the cigarette, and places his other atop her’s as she shakes it, like the way his dad used to when introducing himself to Billy’s teachers. Mrs. Wheeler’s giddy smile returns as his ring presses into the back of her hand and his thumb grazes over her’s. 

“You must be here for Nancy.” 

“Nancy? No, no, no. Not my type-” 

She seems in inhale at that. He finally lets her hand slowly go. 

“No, actually. I’m looking for my little sister Max. Goes by Maxine. She’s been missing all day, and to be honest with you, I’m worried sick, you know-” her lips pout in sympathy, “I thought she was at Lucas’s but Mrs. Sincalir said your house is the…” Billy lets his voice drop, scraping at the back of his throat the way that so many girls fall for, loving how they have to lean in to hear him, as if he’s telling some soul-bearing secret. Mrs. Wheeler is no different. “Designated hangout, so you know-” he lifts an arm to rest against the doorway, just above both their heads, bringing his face closer and smiling predatorily, “Here I am.” 

The inside of the Wheeler house matches the outside, just as picturesque and perfect, save the cookies that she had given him that taste like sawdust between his teeth. But Billy leans against the counter and accepts them, listening intently as Mrs. Wheeler scribbles something in a notebook. 

“Their driveway is pretty dark this time of night,” she says, handing the paper over with a lare smile, “So drive slowly.” 

His cheeks hurt from holding his grin for so long. “Always.” 

“And when you see Mike, tell him to come home, okay?” 

Billy’s voice does the thing. “You’re a real lifesaver, you know that?” 

The cookie is brittle as he bites down, and he swear he chipped a tooth on it but still keeps his eyes locked on her. 

“Anytime,” she practically gasps. 

“I’ll see you later.” 

When he goes for the front door, he keep his gait slow and wide, knowing it makes his ass look rather fucking hot in his jeans, thanking himself for still wearing the open-chested shirt and his best jeans from his cancelled date. In the car, he slams the door shut, and revs the engine, searing away, Camaro screaming through the suburban silence as he tosses the half-eaten cookie out the window. 

#

Twice that night, Billy’s Camaro nearly wrecked a perfectly manicured lawn. On the third time, he plows over the curb, right into the trimmed grass, tires kicking up dirt as he barely misses the mailbox. It is not until he climbs out, slamming the door shut behind him, that Billy sees none other than Steve Harrington sitting on the front porch step, a cigarette in hand. Billy’s smile turns malicious, baring too many teeth as he darts his tongue out. This day just keeps fucking getting better and better. The soon-to-be bruise aches on his cheek. 

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington.” 

Harrington sighs, so heavily, Billy can see his shoulders droop from the weight of it as he runs a hand through his mop of hair. He stands, tossing the untouched cigarette. “Yea, its me. Don’t cream your pants.” 

Billy scoffs, watching a puff of steam rise from his lips. Fuck this frozen hole. 

“You know, I almost didn’t believe it when Maxine told me you were a nanny,” he says, fingers twitching against the belt loop of his jeans, aching for something to hold, “King Steve? Pfft, no way. Until Mrs. Wheeler told me the twerps were all at your house.” 

He watches the way Harrington grits his jaw, head low, hands on his hips, the same way he stands on the sidelines after someone steals the ball from him, or just before he’s given a free-throw for getting pummeled to the ground, both usually done by Billy. 

“Look, do you want something? Or did you just destroy my front lawn for kicks.” 

Billy eyes him a moment. Finds plenty of signs of agitation but mostly his body sags with exhaustion. Nothing about him says anger. He clearly does not seem to give a fuck about the yard. 

“I’m looking for my step-sister. Folks are real nervous. They need her home.” 

Harrington just nods, and slowly begins to turn back towards the house. “Alright, I’ll grab her. She’ll be out in a minute.” 

Billy’s hand reaches out reflexively. No one walks away from him. Especially not Harrington. His hand grapples on the other’s shoulder, yanking him back around. Harrington stares, more annoyed then scared. 

“Now,” Billy growls. 

Harrington shrugs him off. “Jesus, fine.” 

But before he takes two steps away, a chorus of shouts echo across the yard. Both boys turn to find a handful of kids running across the Harrington lawn, Max among them. Her red hair is flying everywhere and there’s grime on her cheek and grass stains on her jeans and Billy knows Susan will make a fuss about it, but she looks… happy. Her face falls the second she sees him. 

Billy straightens. His cheek is sore. 

The boys around her halt as they too notice. Their shouts die instantly and they drop their gazes, falling to a stop a few feet away. He clenches his fist. Max will go home after a day of hanging with her friends, she will be tired and breathless and fall asleep the second her head hits the pillow. And she will not get shoved into a shelf. 

“Maxine…” Billy grits out, voice so low he knows it sounds like a growl. 

Max opens her mouth to defend herself when another kid comes running around the corner, a toothless mouth open wide in a barbaric shout as he lifts his ball-shooter and aims blindly. Billy did not even see it happen. The green ball, no bigger than the size of his fist, shot out of the kid’s toy, streaking through the air. 

There was an unmistakable crunch. The Camaro shudders. 

A crack, reaching from one end of the frame to the other, sits smack in the middle of Billy’s windshield, with spider-like appendages stretching out in all directions. Someone breathes, “Holy shit…” 

Maybe it is Max or one of her friends. Maybe it is Harrington. Either way, Billy is moving the second it registers. 

His boot stomp in the grass and onto the pavement as he shoves through the gaggle of kids. He thinks maybe Max grabs his arm but he rips it away. Billy pounces on the toothless kid, hands fisting at the neck of his hoodie, lifting him till his untied sneakers no longer touch the ground, and shoves him into the garage door. The kid’s back hits the metal with a resounding clang, and it vibrates through his limp body up Billy’s strained arms. The kids are yelling behind him. 

Billy tips his head close, chin lingering just above the mop of curls as he speaks so quietly, knowing only the kid can hear. The adrenaline is bursting through his veins as he squirms in Billy’s grasp. “What did you just do?” 

The kid is trembling and whatever semblance of a jaw he might have once had is long gone as his mouth gapes wide, eyes unblinking, terrified. Billy leans closer. 

“Now, I’m gonna ask you again. What, did you just do?” 

There is an unmistakable sound of pee dripping, between them, and something warm splashes onto Billy’s boots. Billy grins. He shoves the kid into the door even harder, leaving a dent in the metal. Max is screaming at him. His cheek hurts. 

He flexes his arms, ready to shove the kid against the garage again, until something flies through the air, striking him in his unhurt cheek. Billy recognizes the pain. He saw the shadow of a fist pass over the garage door. Pain explodes through his face as he drops the kid. 

He knows who it is by the smell alone. Steve Harrington's cologne smelled like fancy soap, the kinds you could only catch a whiff of at Macy's before the sales lady yelled at you. It followed Harrington during practice, and floated around him in the showers. His fist left a trace of it in Billy's nose. 

Billy lets out a whoop, tipping his head back and reveling in the way the pain smeared the edges of his vision as he howls at the millions of stars above Harrington's roof. 

He turns to Harrington and shouts, "Looks like you got some fire in you after all, huh?" Billy spreads out his arms. "I've been waiting to meet this King Steve everyone has been telling me so much about." 

Billy stalkes closer, till he and Harrington are just as close as the boy he threw against the garage door. But Harrington shoves a finger into his unbuttoned chest, stopping him. His eyes are unblinking and dangerous, and Billy can see the fury licking just behind the irises. Who knew all he had to do was bully a kid to get King Steve angry. His finger tips are searingly cold on his bare skin. 

"Get out," he growls, voice low and steady, but wielding an edge unheard of before. 

Billy hesitates, waiting for an explosion, waiting for King Steve to threaten or hit him again. He wonders how many hits could Harrington give before the blood from his split knuckles mixed with the blood from the broken nose he would give Billy. But Harrington just glares. 

Billy knows that anyone with a brain could see his punch coming from a mile away, knew that his stance was all wrong but still swang, feeling the tips of Harrington's hair swipe his knuckles as Harrington ducks under his punch. He retaliates instantly, a left hook coming around to collide with Billy's same cheek. 

His face throbs. Billy cackles as he falters back a step. The kids are shouting again, this time cheering for their beloved savior. Harrington's other hand hits Billy right on his open mouth. His eyes water as blood begins to ooze down his teeth and gush from his tongue. Billy laughs harder. The stars are barely visible through the pain in his vision. He waits for Harrington's next punch. 

It lashes out, charging for his nose when Billy ducks, letting it graze by his ear. He comes up with an upperhook, hitting Steve right in his stupid chin. Billy knows he has hit his mark when Harrington stumbles back with craized puppy-dog eyes, unfocused as Hargrove stalks after him. Billy punches again, colliding with Harrington's cheek. Harrington's body twists from the impact. He falls backwards over the hood of his own red Beamer. Billy pounces, towering over him, and grips his shirt with a bloody knuckle. 

Harrington is slowly becoming limp in his grasp. The kids are screaming now. Harrington's eyes lay unfocused. A flicker of disappointment licks at Billy's power surge, dulling the sensation. Why won't Harrington right back? Why is he going down so easily? Why is he letting Billy do this? He came to sniff out a fight, searching for anything to unleash the tension coiling between his shoulder blades since Neil had shoved him against the shelf. But Harrington is slowly going lack. 

Billy pins him against the red hood and swings, let's his fist fly, colliding with Harrington's nose, feeling it crack between his knuckles. He punches again, splitting the skin along Harrington's cheek as a the skin turns an ugly shade of purple. Billy punches again. And again. Till his shoulder burn from the impact and his knuckles are a canvas of their blood, dripping between his fingers. He hits and he hits and Steve is limp beneath him but he can't find himself to care. 

He just wants Harrington to fight him back. Anyone to fight him. Someone to hit him over the head with a bat so that the wood splits over his head and Billy goes down with a lifeless thud. It would be easier for everyone that way.

A flash a blue and red lights flicker somewhere in the corner of his eye. He punches harder. There's a man shouting now. He hits Harrington's swollen eye. 

Billy knows the the police baton. Knows the weight of it when it swings and the way it whistles through the air. It smashes into the side of his head. He stumbles backwards, vision now entirely lost as the pain shuts it off, dropping him to the pavement. He's not dead. He knows his skull did not cave in. But Billy figures this is as close as he was gonna get tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyye, the big fight is here! Totally did not spend nearly as much time on editing as I should have but ya girls gotta go to work.
> 
> But yea I decided to change up the fight scene a little to him threatening Dustin cause a) he's Steve's favorite and b) I didn't wanna write the sticky mess that is Billy's unaddressed, possible racism.


	5. Community Service

The kids at Hawkins High always whispered about Hopper. Their version of the big bad policeman. Billy nearly laughed when he came to in the Sheriff's office. Hopper shoves a bag of ice at his chest and goes to sit on the opposite side of his desk. Billy's head throbs, and every blink causes his vision to focus and unfocus again, and his face feels like it has been pounded by a meat cleaver. He revels in his body's dead weight. 

Hopper lights a cigarette and sighs as the first puff of smoke breathes. His hair is a balding frumpled mess and there is ash in his mustache. He stares at Billy like spilled milk on his floor.

"You've been here nine days, Hargrove." 

Billy presses the ice pack into his split knuckles, the cold burning the broken skin. "I'm ashamed it's taken me so long." 

Hopper just puffs on his smoke. 

"Steve Harrington is a good kid. Used to be a punk but has turned it around for the better. So what exactly is your problem with him?" 

Billy runs his tongue over a split lip, feeling the broken skin peeling back. He grins and his lip burns. "He was in my way." 

"Well, he's in the hospital now." 

Last time this happened, Billy smiled like someone had told him he won the lottery. This time, there was an odd pang of… something in his ribs. He will die before he calls it guilt. But it is nowhere near pride either. 

He stares at the red-stained ice pack. "Doctors like my handiwork?" 

"Jesus, kid," Hopper says, running a dry hand through his hair, "You could have killed him. Do this in a couple months and you'll be tried as an adult and locked up. You've already got the records. All they need is one broken nose and you're gone." 

Billy's gut twists, suddenly feeling nauseous, eyeing the trash can beside Hopper's desk. Jail was never off the table. He knew that. Neil always said that is where he was meant to be. With all the fags and the criminals. It is the short amount of time that Billy has that sends him reeling. Eighteen was supposed to mean freedom from Neil. He would be trading one prison for another.

"What are you gonna do, Hop?" Billy drawls out, "Gonna clip an ankle bracelet on me and call it a day?" 

Hopper chuckles. The sound startled Billy out of his lingering nauseousness. He stares at the sheriff who is now fucking grinning at him as he taps the ashes off his cigarette. 

"No, no. Hawkins can’t afford a tether. Can't afford extra help at some of our small businesses either. This is where you come in." 

Billy stares. Sure, he has done community service before. Picked up trash along the sidewalk and scrubbed graffiti off the walls. At least he did not have proof around his ankle for Neil to see. 

"And Max?" he asks. 

Hopper blinks at the subject change. "Home. With your parents." 

Billy ducks his head, grimacing at that. Neil knew. Fuck the tether Neil knew and Billy was gonna pay.

# 

The school is enthralled with the marks on Billy's face and knuckles. Rumors spread the second his boot stepped foot on the pavement, lighting the fire. One week in and he has heard that he fought an entire biker gang. He fucked a married woman and the husband went beserk. His Camaro got totalled. That last one is ridiculous considering he fucking drove it to school. Except there was still that shattered windshield he refuses to explain to anyone. The stories fuel Billy. They are fun. Harmless. If they think he is crazy enough to take on a biker gang then why not let them believe it. 

One week of wild Billy rumors. One week of no Harrington. People begin to notice on day three. By Friday 1st period, every tall tale is dropped for the theory that Billy Hargrove put Steve Harrington into a coma. He is not actually sure about the coma part. Hopper never mentioned anything like that, but then again Billy did not really know the guy, nor did the sheriff like him. Harrington could be brain dead for all he knows. That makes his stomach squelch. He prefers the biker gang. 

Saturday is community service. Initially, Billy had expected picking trash off the highway or helping with a middle school sports team. But when Hopper drops him off at a tiny shop on Main Street, with Joyce Byers waving at him from the doorstep, he comes to the conclusion that this town is the most backwards shit hole ever. Joyce ushers him inside as Hopper drives away. 

The second the bell above the door jingles shut behind him, a piece of scratchy cloth is thrown at his face. The material gets in his mouth and Billy sputters as Joyce says, “Put it on, this is the first time in ages that I’ve had help. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

Time passes smoothly, with Billy stoking the high shelves or dusting the lights or moving the heavy displays. Joyce does not hover over him like every other adult in his life. She gives him a new task and goes to complete her own, typically out of eyesight. Pretty stupid on her part, letting a delinquent loose in her store. But he does as he is told. This is a full day away from home. 

Billy is in the storage closet, searching for what Joyce calls “cooking spray” when the door jingles as the sixth customer walks in. He ignores it, eyes scanning the shelves stacked with everything but cooking spray until Joyce exclaims, "Steve!" 

The lax droop of his shoulder tense all the sudden, and he sucks in a breath. 

"Christ! You need to put something on that!" 

Harrington chuckles softly, "I already did." 

His gut clenches at Harrington’s voice. It has been a week. This is the first time Billy even hears him since that day.

Joyce scrambles around the store, muttering incoherently. He risks a peak around the crack in the closet door. Sure enough, Steve Harrington stands in the middle of the floor, back to him as the afternoon sun glows through the window, shining around his hair. When Joyce returns with a slab of frozen meat, Harrington turns, and Billy slams his back into the closet door to close it on himself. 

"What was that?" he thinks Harrington asks. 

But he cannot listen to Joyce's response. All he can think about if the purple color of Harrington's skin, the way his cheek is split across the bone, with a haphazard bandage over top. His lips are bent and split, and there's black rings under his eyes. Billy wants to hurl. 

He should not feel like this. Its not like he has never seen someone look that bad. This is not the first person to look like ground round from his fists either. All he can think about is how Harrington looks exactly the Billy did, back in California, after September. He walks with the same limp and talks with the same slur. Billy lifts a hand and bites into his freshly healed knuckles, digging his teeth into the scabs until he feels one snap. Blood oozes around his tooth. 

He thinks he hears Harrington leave after Joyce scolds, "Stop getting into stupid fights!" But Billy remains frozen, back to the door in a supply closet with one flickering lightbulb as his teeth are stained pink. Billy once looked exactly like Harrington, done in by Neil. In this scenario, Billy is Neil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a filler chapter. 
> 
> Fucking hated writing it. 
> 
> GIVE ME THE MEAT AND POTATOES!!!!
> 
> Also extra special thanks to enjoltRwolfstar for the sweetest comment that HAS HELPED ME MUSCLE THROUGH


	6. Pencil Days

Max’s fork clatters to her plate, interrupting Susan’s blabbering about the stores in town. 

“I’m done,” she declares, and scrapes her chair back against the tile, standing to leave. 

“Maxine,” Neil says. 

Everyone freezes. Max, half standing and Susan with a green bean on the end of her fork. Billy just shoves another slip of mashed potatoes in his mouth. 

“That’s not what we say.” 

Max’s eyes dart to her mother. Billy watches as Susan keeps her head low. 

“May I be excused?” she corrects. 

Neil nods, once, firmly. “And?” 

Billy catches the slightest shift of her jaw, and wonders if she grinds her teeth just like he does. 

“Thank you, Mom. For dinner.” 

Susan suddenly perks up and offers a smile any fifties house-wife would be jealous of. It’s quiet when Max leaves. Billy has six green beans left. 

“Darling,” Neil says, placing a hand on Susan’s ring. Billy thinks of a jail keeper checking a prisoners handcuffs. 

“This was a lovely dinner. Would you clear the dishes? I would like to have a talk with my son.” 

Billy bites down and misses his vegetable, slicing into his tongue. Susan is standing over him, reaching for his plate as he clutches it. “I’m not done.” 

Neil is watching him. Not glaring. Watching. Waiting. 

“You’ve had more than enough, you ate like a pig tonight. Susan, clear the dishes please.” 

She carries away the last of his dinner and with it, any sense of security he hid behind at the dinner table. 

Neil leans back in his chair. “The chief tells me you got in a street fight last week.” 

Billy clenches and unclenches the paper napkin in his hand. 

“Says you beat up some jock.” 

He snorts, nerves making his knee bounce and his tongue loose. “More of a prep really.” 

He watches as Neil frown twitches under his mustache. Billy knows he has fucked up before his father even speaks. “You been staring at this boy a lot?” 

His head whips up to stare at Neil. “What?” 

“Is that why you beat the shit out of him? Cause he wasn’t a fag like you?” 

“I don’t-”

The table shakes and their leftover glasses clink against the wood as Neil slams an open palm down. Billy stills his scare into the smallest twitch, keeping unblinking eyes on his father. 

“I will not have that kind of behavior from my son,” says Neil, voice stern and suddenly Billy thinks of the bad guys from the war movies his father used to make him watch. “Do you understand?” The palm slams down again. Billy jumps this time. “Do you understand?” 

#

The next morning, Billy walks into Joyce’s store with a swollen black eye and a crick in his shoulder. She actually frowns and disappears to give him something cold to press against his face. But she doesn’t say anything. Not the way she cooed over Steve last weekend. She doesn’t ask where he got it from or what the other guy looks like. Just says, “Should I call Hopper?” 

Billy quickly shakes his head, the ice scraping against the aching skin. Joyce nods and goes back to sticking price tags on all the products and Billy restocks the shelves. 

#

Harrington has been in school for exactly one week. This is the second Monday he has pulled his red Beamer up to the far side of the parking lot, and sat in it until the bell had nearly wrung. Billy was not watching him. Not if he could help it. He would ignore Steve Harrington for the rest of his life and never have to see that brown fluff of hair walking ahead of him in the hallways. But Billy cannot seem to avoid the guy. Parking lot, boom he is there in his big shiny car. Second hour, back of the class, scribbling in his notebook. Fourth period, back of the class, sleeping. Fifth period... Harrington always sits in the back of class. He keeps his head so low that his chin practically touches his desk. When did he start doing that? 

Monday, Billy’s eye is still a little foggy and a whole lot black and blue, and people whisper and discuss their accusations because how often did the New King of Hawkins High get into fights? Second period is English class, where Billy slides into the back row next to Tommy H. Steve is two desks over. With only some brunette in a pink sweater between them. He hunches over his open notebook with the tip of his pencil swirling with jerky movements as he writes god know what. 

Billy’s bad eye is still kinda funky and blurs his vision at a distance. When Ms. Stein writes something on the black board in thin, swirly letters, he can hardly make it out. He rips Tommy’s notebook right off his desk but the boy doesn’t have shit written on the wrinkled paper. 

“This is why you’re fucking failing, Hill,” he grumbles and tosses it back. 

Ms. Stein writes more on the board. Billy can make out two words. 

“Ma’am,” Billy blurts out. She turns to stare, startled from her schpiel. He thinks her glasses are too big for her nose. “What’s the first line say?” 

It takes her a second to realize what he means as her curls bounce around her shoulders. 

“It’s questioning Jordan’s role in the book and whether she was looking out for Daisy or she just acted as she pleased.” 

Something rustles to Billy’s left. He winks with his good eye. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

Someone is writing so hard and fast that Billy can hear the pencil scratch the paper. He glances over, ready to shut it up when he realizes it’s Harrington whose pencil is scribbling furiously. His hair falls over his eyes and his hands is shaking from writing so fast. Billy squints but gets his view blocked by the girl between them as she leans forward. 

#

Tuesday, Billy’s pencil snaps between his fingers as he fucks around with it, twirling it and tapping it and biting it. The slivered wood jabs the plush skin at his fingertip, and a dot of blood pools. 

Tommy H is snoring beside him, nose squished into the desk with a string of drool pooling beneath it. Billy reaches over and swipes his pencil, only to find the tip cracked and lead-less when he goes to press it onto his paper. 

“Fucking inebriate,” he mutters. 

When he stands, the metal feet of his chair scrape into the floor, adding to the numerous black scars, startling Ms. Stein with his movement. 

“Um, Mr. Hargrove-“ 

Harrington ducks his head. 

“Just sharpening my pencil, Ma’am.” 

The sleeves of Harrington’s green sweater crumple the edges of his notebook paper but he draws them closer, ducked head and hunched shoulders nearly hiding his paper. Nearly. Billy clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes locked ahead, pretending not to notice the stegosaurus way Harrington’s spine bristles at Billy’s movements. 

He stands at the sharpener and cranks it, the contraption inside biting away at Tommy’s pencil as Ms. Stein drones on. When satisfied, Billy staggers back to his seat, lost in examining his new pencil tip that he almost misses the way Harrington isn’t curled upon himself like a possum. Instead, he stared ahead at the board, eyes squinting so tightly that crows feet appear in the corners as his brow crumpled in concentration. Billy can’t help but thinks he looks like an idiot, and is fighting the urge to flick the side of his head when Harrington’s paper comes into view. The page is littered with random sketches, drawn by a clenched hand pressing harshly into the paper until each doodle turned into more of a black mess of scratches and claw marks. At the top, the question Billy had asked about is written. “Jordan good friend or selfish?” The rest of the page wears a smattering of random words and phrases like, “Stuck in past?” or “Gastby good or bad?” Harrington doesn’t write what he so intensely staring at on the board. Realization hits as Billy gets back to his seat, plopping down on the metal to sit sideways. 

Steve Harrington, is blind as a fucking bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyyyyyye, a bitch is back!
> 
> So, its been probably like four months since I updated but like who the fuck cares. 
> 
> I don't actually know how active the Harrington fandom is rn but for anyone actually reading, many thanks.


	7. Slice of Cherry Pie

Fifth period comes around and Billy is determined to test his theory. Does it matter? Not really. Harrington’s grades and academic performance has nothing to do with him. But the erueka moment from second period has been buzzing about his head all day, like a fly that just will not fucking leave him alone. He tells himself it’s because this town is so mind-melting that Steve Harrington possibly needing glasses is the most exciting thing to happen in days. Not that he cares. 

In Algebra 2, Harrington sits one seat up and one left, giving Billy practically a clear view of his paper just beneath the deep green sweater sleeve. More scribbles. So intensely sliced in the paper they appear almost monstrous, living dark creatures on the page, smudged and crumbled in between the blue lines. Harrington glares at his paper in way that cuts deep creases into his forehead, eyes squinted into slits. Damn, how blind was he? 

Mr. Marion begins to drone on about arithmetic, disgustingly large lips hidden behind an ungroomed mustache, stray hairs reaching over his mouth. Harrington glances up. Once, twice. Each time somehow squinting harder and crouching lower over his desk. When did the King of Hawkins High crouch like some grease-faced nerd? 

Since Billy Hargrove broke him. 

Harrington’s hair flops over his eyes as individual vertebrae knuckle beneath his sweater. Sure, maybe this was what Billy wanted. The great trust fund king knocked down from his pedestal with such a force that he shrivels at the sight of his successor. His prissy ex could also be to blame. She already seemed to have yanked him down a few notches if rumors were to be true. But what’s the point of being the top dog if there’s no one to challenge? Without competition, Billy is just howling at the moon like some rabid wolf. Plus, life in Hawkins is too fucking boring without a Bambi-eyed prey. 

At least, this is what Billy tells himself when he finally says, “What are the first two numbers in the equation?” 

The class startles. Heads turn and pencils freeze, except Harrington, who keeps his head low, casting a side-eye back at Billy. 

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Marion asks. 

“The first two numbers.” 

“Fourteen and seven.” 

Harrington pounces on his paper. 

“Uhuh. And what about the one next to it?” 

“Nine.” 

The paper is beginning to crumple beneath Harrington’s elbow. 

“Right. And that symbol between them?” 

Mr. Marion huffs, placing his hands on the hem of his fraying sweater vest. “Mr. Hargrove, I don’t know what you’re playing at-“ 

“Not playing,” Billy taps his pencil at the tip of his eyebrow where the bruising has begun to fade into a vomit green. “Bad eye.” 

Harrington leans forward in anticipation. 

“The division symbol, Mr. Hargrove.” 

“With parentheses around the seven and nine?” 

“Yes.” 

A complete equation is written amongst the chaos of Harrington’s notes. Billy tosses a wink at the teacher and says, “Gracias.” 

#

No school the day before Thanksgiving. The leaves, once fiery shades of yellow and red -that even Billy had to admit were beautiful- now skittered lifeless and haggard across Main Street, occasionally whipping against the glass door of the convenience store. Night falls at four-thirty in the afternoon, and it irks Billy to no end that by the time his shift is up, it’s already fucking dark. The shelves are practically desolate by the time Joyce flips the Closed sign. Every canned food imaginable that Billy had stocked was long gone in everyone’s last-minute Thanksgiving dash. He drags a stained rag across the bare shelves. 

“Nine o’clock tomorrow?” he asks Joyce as she passes him. 

She folds the blue apron with cracked fingers and looks up at him with a small smile. “We’re closed tomorrow, Billy.” 

Oh. Right. Thanksgiving. A holiday. With Neil. 

The way Joyce is eying him gives him the heebee-jeebees with her too-big brown eyes. He plasters on the Californian smile and tips confidently against the shelf that once held canned green beans and corn. 

“My bad.” 

Joyce flips him a smirk, not the flustered toothy grin Ms. Wheeler spewed the other week. 

“But I do have something for you,” she begins to say, walking back towards the cash register. 

Her jeans fringe at the heel where her sneakers catch the end. Billy tosses the rag aside and follows when she disappears behind the counter. Joyce emerges with her hands held out like an offering, a small plastic box that crinkles with every shift in her palms. Inside, a single sugared slice of cherry pie. 

Billy knows this came from the current entrance display, that disappeared the second the store opened. Lost to the greedy hands of bustling mothers prepping for the holiday. But she saved him a slice. Little Billy used to smile at surprises and gifts, fully believing that he deserved every bit. That was long ago. He can feel his brows subconsciously knit together. 

“Happy thanksgiving, Billy.”

Joyce is smiling at him, and he almost forgets to react until he catches the slightest drop in her features. 

“Um, thanks. Thank you.” 

#

Lover’s Lake is the hotspot of town, or so he has been told. Scenic views and utter privacy for the pleasure of horny teenagers. Billy nearly snorted when he first heard the name. Some sophomore after school snuggled up to his locker and bat her blue-powdered eyes asking, “Ever been to Lover’s Lake, Billy?” 

He had to admire her bravado for an underclassmen, but the obnoxiously hot pink scrunchie just did not do it for him. Granted, none of the girls did. No lipstick shade or mini skirt really appealed. 

Never, does Billy come home this early. Not before or after his community service at the store began. Neil comes home within the hour, and Susan begins to flutter about the kitchen, burning herself on every hot surface for her two-star meal. 

The moon is pinned above the tree tops when Billy pulls aside the never-ending road about Hawkins, stopping where the fields turn to forrest and street lights disappear. The Camaro’s wheels crunch over the gravel beside the road, kicking up dust that lingers when he steps out. Not four feet from the daggered edge of his headlight, the ground drops. Drops to the famed Lover’s Lake hundreds of feet below, carved unironically, into a lopsided heart from the stone. 

The wind from such a height screams and snaps at his shoe laces. It slams so harshly, that his body begins to lean like the trees across the ravine, his curls whistling like the leaves. The slightest sway, from his heels to the tips of his Converse, will let him go, silently over the edge. He supposes, it would not be the worst way to go. The act would be so… effortless. The ease of just allowing his body to go lax, the relief when he finally just, lets go. What peace awaits after life is over. 

But Billy has never been one for peace. Besides, he has a date in his passenger seat. A whole ass cherry pie slice sitting prettily on the leather, waiting for him to devour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I made a GRAVE-ASS error and had to go through and edit all my chapters. I kept writing STEVE instead of HARRINGTON. And since this story is Billy-centric, THAT CANNOT STAND.
> 
> Many thanks and super gratitude to those who commented on the last chapter at my resurrection.
> 
> Though suicide is not to be taken lightly, I just kept thinking about this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVYFDOIYTnc when writing the Lover's Lake scene lol.


	8. Recipe For Disaster

The straw broom scratches over the laminate floor, barely catching half of the crud as Billy drags it across. Not like this crap had already been building on the floor since the fucking sixties. Three of the broom bristles fall off as he gives a particularly harsh tug. 

“Okay, Billy. I’m gonna get a smoke break,” Joyce says, grabbing her purse from behind the counter, “Be back in ten.” 

And she is gone out the back alley, hands already pulling the first cigarette from the crushed packet. Joyce has been doing that recently, ever since the cherry pie last week. Maybe it is trust. Perhaps laziness or a lack of caring in general. Either way, no one in their right mind would leave Billy Hargrove in charge of a store. No matter how fucking small. 

The second the back door clicks behind her, Billy tosses the broom aside and breaks for the cash register, vaulting himself over the check-out counter, jeans and blue vest skidding over the top as he lands on his feet, directly in front of the cigarette wall. Sure, Joyce was nice to him. Like actually nice to him. For what reason he has no fucking clue. But he does his community service like a good little citizen and grits a smile the two times that Chief Hopper showed up to check on him. Still, no reason to stop himself from reaching up and plucking a pack of Malbaros off the wall. Just one everytime Joyce takes her recent smoke breaks. Two or more would become suspicious. Yesterday, when he had come into the store, the butt of a cigarette still hanging from his lips, Joyce gave him a once over but didn’t say anything. 

Still, Billy found himself lying. “Bummed it off my old man.” 

He goes to stuff the pack in his back pocket, before deciding better not to, with the possibility of Joyce seeing it stick out. Can’t put it in his vest. He would just forget it there once his shift is over. Can’t stuff it in his boots as he opted for converse today. He glances down at his belt and decides, why the fuck not. His shirt would cover it for the most part. Only problem is getting it down there. 

And that is how Steve fucking Harrington finds him. Behind the counter with a hand down his pants, belt undone. 

The bells rings a warning, but it’s too late. His knuckles barely fit beneath the unforgiving denim as is. Harrington stands in the doorway, keys in hand and sunglasses over his eyes. Doesn’t matter. Billy can still feel his stare. As if reading his thoughts, Harrington takes off his RayBans. He doesn’t speak. Just fucking stares. It takes three tugs but Billy finally yanks his hand free, denim scraping his knuckles. He rushes to fix his belt, glaring at Harrington cause the guy will not fucking move. Or speak. 

“What?” Billy finally snarls, shoving the end of the leather through. 

Harrington must finally come to, because there is like a dozen fluttered blinks before he clears his throat. “Uh… is uh, Joyce…” 

Billy watches him flail about for a moment before setting a hand on his hip and jabbing a finger at the ground. 

“Here? Is she here?” 

Billy buries his knuckles onto the counter, leaning forward and flashing his shark grin. “What, you didn’t come here to see me?” 

But it doesn’t quite land and it only makes Billy feel weirder after literally being caught with his hands down his pants. Though it does make Harrington’s ears tinge pink, so Billy pretends that’s a win. 

“She’s on break,” he finally says. 

“Oh.” 

And now Harrington is standing in the middle of the store, hands shoved into his bomber jacket as he glances awkwardly around, not fucking leaving, just standing. Billy is not about to pipe out, “Is there anything I can help you with?” like a good employee would. 

Instead he snaps, “Do you need something?” 

Harrington whirls back to him, as if he fucking forgot Billy was even there. “Uh, Joyce had a recipe she wanted to give me…” 

He goes back to standing there like an idiot, looking everywhere but Billy. 

With the evening sun stretching through the windows, his face is practically good as new. Barely any licks of green or purple. But Billy can just see the red gash tucked in his eyebrow, no longer bloody but scabbed and raised, tender where the hair will never again grow. A permanent reminder of Billy. His intestines twist inside. He should be proud. Should want to beat his chest and howl at the moon like some predator because he has marked his prey. But Steve Harrington is not prey. And Billy has this undeniable feeling of wanting to vomit at the thought of Harrington ever carrying around traces of Billy Hargrove. No one needs that shit.

“Harrington,” Billy blurts out, too loud and too sudden and now he has Harrington’s startled attention but he didn’t fucking think this through. 

It’s a normal thing, right? To apologize? To try and make amends? 

“I uh…” Jesus, how do people do this shit? What the fuck is he supposed to say?  
“I'm trying to-“ 

And now Harrington is staring at him, head tilted like a fucking puppy dog with those Bambi eyes and he cannot fucking think of the words to say because when did Billy Hargrove ever apologize? 

“About the other night-“ And he doesn’t miss the way Harrington’s eye twitches just below the scar or how his shoulders hunch the tiniest bit forward. “Jesus, this is stupid. I mean- I don’t-“ 

And the bell rings. Chief Hopper of all goddamn people step through the door. He is mouthing a cigarette, but immediately halts upon seeing Billy with an open mouth and Harrington all hunched in on himself. 

“Fellas.” 

And if it could not get any better, Joyce emerges from the back, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand, freezing at the sight of the three of them. 

Jesus Christ. His life was a fucking mess. 

#

As it turns out, Joyce really did have a recipe for Harrington, gods be damned. She had handed him a water-stained flash card, littered with measurements and reminded him, “And don’t forget to watch the stove! Set a timer if you must. You can’t resort to the fire extinguisher every time.” 

Now that, had made Billy raise an eyebrow. What kind of recipes was he making? 

As it also turns out, Chief Hopper was there for Billy himself. Doing another check in on his one community service case. He taps the counter after Steve leaves, police fedora still on his head. 

“Lemme get two Malbaros.” 

Billy does as he is told, hoping Joyce won’t question why he was behind the counter in the first place when the fucking chief of police was there. But she just bustles about, mumbling to herself. 

“You got any pumpkin pie left?” Hopper asks as Billy places the two packs before him. 

Joyce answers before he gets the chance, three rows over. “You know they’ve been gone since Thanksgiving!” 

Hopper just grumbles and takes out his wallet. 

“How are the hours, Billy?” heasks, handing him a ten. 

Billy cashes it in. “Peachy.” 

“They're not messing with your practice or school hours?” 

“No, sir.” 

“And your folks? How are they settling into Hawkins?” 

There’s a tension in Billy’s shoulders that grips him. He shoves the change at Hopper. 

“Just fine.” 

“Not getting into anymore fights are we?” 

“No sir.” 

Hopper is staring at him beneath bushy eyebrows and Billy’s knuckles are tapping on the counter and his teeth are grinding and fuck, he needs a cigarette. He is about three seconds from breaking this stare-down with something super irrational and probably fucking dumb when Joyce calls something out to Hopper and diverts his attention. Billy flares his nostrils, eyeing the empty spot just outside the window where a red Beamer had parked only moments ago, and wonders what the recipe was for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooah this quarantine thing kinda wild.
> 
> Do I have low key writer’s block with no idea what I want to do next for our gay sons? I’ll never tell. You know you love me.
> 
> Xoxo  
That Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you can't already tell, this is just an 80's Midwest self-discovery gay love story. No upside down or monsters. But I wanted to start it as the show starts Billy's story, with the whole Halloween party/rivalry thing. So some of these early scenes are gonna be cannon.


End file.
